Endless Love
by Clara Barton
Summary: Heero Yuy goes to Howard's End every other Thursday for one reason: Duo Maxwell


For chibibritt and her prompt of : A love triangle with lounge singer(s) and mob/yakuza.

Warnings: smut, language, angst, violence...angst...

Pairings: 1x2, 2x3, past 1x4

Endless Love

"Looks like some of it's missing."

Heero held himself as still as possible, kept his face neutral and his eyes clear.

"Nothing is missing," he said, biting out the words.

Gio snorted and raked his meaty hands through the duffel bag again. He wasn't even taking the time to count out the money, just _feeling_ how much there was.

"No, something's missing for sure."

Gio looked up at him with a sneer, his gray eyes glittering dangerously and Heero knew that look. He had seen that look directed at others, had watched Gio beat the ever living shit out of drug runners after giving them that look.

But Heero wasn't one of them. He wasn't a drug runner. He wasn't someone Gio _could_ beat the ever living shit out of. Well, physically Gio could - physically Gio could probably eviscerate one of the lions at the MGM with his bare hands. But he couldn't lay a hand on Heero, not if he wanted to keep those hands attached to his body.

Still, Heero couldn't help but flinch when Gio shoved the duffel bag aside and gave Heero that look.

"Nothing is missing," Heero repeated.

Gio looked him over, taking his time, his gaze lingering on Heero's expensive black suit, on the green dress shirt that he wore open to his sternum, on the gold chain and the St. Anthony pendant there.

"If you weren't your mother's son, I'd kick your ass."

Heero arched an eyebrow.

He was used to this game. He'd been getting these same comments for as long as he could remember, and he'd been responding the same way for just as long.

"And if my father were here he'd have you shot for threatening me."

Gio sneered again and muttered something about 'slanty-eyed bastards' under his breath, loud enough for Heero hear.

Once it would have pissed him off, would have sent him into a rage that would have likely resulted in both he and Gio bleeding and bruised and in deep shit with Heero's parents.

But Heero had learned. He had learned not to care and he had learned to say 'fuck it' to everyone and everything.

That's what happened when you were the son of Julia and Katashi Yuy. Julia Yuy, nee Julia DeStefano, was the only child of one of the most powerful mob families still operating in Las Vegas and Katashi Yuy was one of the most powerful Yakuza branches operating inside and outside of Japan. Romeo and Juliet - that's what people compared Heero's parents to. Two scions of powerful, dangerous families that had been fighting for turf in Las Vegas for years until Katashi and Julia fell in love and married, united the families and turning the Las Vegas underworld into their kingdom.

And Heero, as heir to that, as heir to the Italian American mafia traditions on one side of his family and the Yakuza traditions and expectations from the other side, had long ago learned that he was a colossal disappointment.

His first inkling of just how much of a disappointment he was had been at his birthday party when he was six and he had ignored the toy guns and action figures and instead taken the Barbie doll that Relena Darlian, the rich, WASP girl his parents dreamed of him marrying one day, had brought to the party and playing with that instead. His father had beaten him, not for the first time, but certainly the harshest up to that point, using his belt and hitting Heero so hard some of the welts turned bloody and Heero had run to his mother, crying and desperate, only to be told to stop crying and start acting like a man instead of a queer.

He hadn't known what that meant yet, but the word had stuck with him - the continual insult and threat his parents used against him, the reminder of just how disappointing he was to them.

And by the time he was sixteen and sucking cocks during gym class instead of playing baseball, Heero no longer cared about the fact that his parents hissed at him and called him a queer, faggot failure. He no longer cared about the bruises and the cuts and the scabs on his body from the beatings his father gave him when he heard rumors, when Heero was caught blowing a teacher at school.

And now, at the age of twenty-five, Heero was literally out of fucks to give. His own parents despised him, but they were too proud and too steeped in tradition to even think of acknowledging his failures outside of private, family shouting matches that had twice resulted in the cops being called and breaking into the penthouse apartment Heero had at the Aria after gunshots had been heard by his neighbors.

He didn't care who knew he was gay anymore, but he understood the penalties for embarrassing his family with his sexuality - those had been made very, very clear to him two years ago when he had gone over to his boyfriend's house and found him dead, having drowned or bled out his backyard pool. Heero had made the mistake of taking Quatre out in public, of clubbing with him and kissing him and someone had told, someone had told his mother or his father or one of his uncles and Quatre had been dispatched.

Heero usually jumped in and out of boys bed's without developing much of a relationship, without caring one way or another if he ever saw the boy or fucked him again, but Quatre had been different. Quatre had been from a strict, Arab emigre family and had been fighting against similar familial expectations and lack of approval and he had been kind and beautiful and given Heero hope, given Heero weird feelings that went beyond loving the sounds Quatre made when Heero fucked him with his tongue and into the alien world of genuine affection. He and Quatre had been together for eight months - Heero had stopped fucking random guys at clubs after two months - and they held hands when they fell asleep in bed together.

When his family killed Quatre, Heero felt as though the only living, functioning part of his soul had been ripped out of him.

He cared even less about the kingdom, the empire of filth and greed he would one day inherit, and so on those thankfully rare occasions when Heero was tasked with delivering drugs or money there usually was some missing. And tonight, there was more than _some_ missing. Heero had taken several thousand dollars from the cut, and he knew Gio would find a way of tattling, of letting Julia know that his son was skimming, but Heero didn't care.

If it was all going to be his anyway - and if he was going to be the family fuck-up who should have died during his c-section birth in the first place, as his father shouted at him over the years - then why did it matter if Heero took a few thousand dollars here and there?

Eventually, Gio let him go, knowing he couldn't do anything about it, or to Heero, until he had Julia's permission. And Heero knew she would give it - he remembered the last time, seven months ago, when Gio had ratted on him and Julia had backhanded Heero so hard his lips split and then Gio had punched and kicked Heero until Heero was just a bloody, gasping ball staining the white rug made from polar bear hides that had been Katashi's anniversary present to her the previous year. Julia loved that rug, and Heero's punishment was made even more severe after he bled on it and ruined it.

So Heero shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered out of the basement of the trashy casino that Gio operated for the family and even though he knew he would be punished for it later, he couldn't help the tiny thrill of triumph, the knowledge that, at least for now, he had screwed over his parents.

It was early spring in Vegas, the night air clear and just this side of chilly so Heero walked, leaving his Ferrari parked outside of Gio's casino, wedged between rusting Hondas and Fords and he hoped it was stolen - hoped he could blame it on Gio.

He walked north along the Strip until he made it to old Vegas, the seedy downtown area that was slowly, laughably being revitalized. To the south, the Strip glittered brightly with the mega-casinos and hotels that brought tourists to Vegas like moths to a flame, but the north remained sad and downtrodden, the last vestiges of the 1970s and 80s crumbling away and being shittily repainted year after year.

Heero preferred old Vegas for many reasons, not the least of which was because the family businesses were mostly to the south - the only thing his family had interest in this far north was the pawn shop near the Elvis wedding chapel, and Heero stayed away from there.

He liked the raw, raunchy attitude of old Vegas - the acceptance of failure and the lack of ability of momentum to change and adapt to the glittery facade of the wealthy south. He felt at home here, at peace, because no one knew who he was and no one gave any fucks about him.

Heero went to his usual haunt, his favorite bar that might as well have been in a time machine. It was decorated in what might have been cutting edge style for 1973, but forty years later the gold and mirrored interior was dingy and sad, the plush red carpets stained from years of god only knew what and the varnish on the tables cracked and smoothed away.

Heero loved it.

He'd first come here with Wufei Chang eight years ago, back when Wufei's girlfriend was still alive, when she worked here as a waitress and delivered drink after drink to their table in between Wufei groping her and other patrons yelling for service.

Howard's End. It was supposed to be some kind of joke, some kind of reference to something, but Heero had never gotten the joke and he had never really cared.

Wufei had stopped coming here years ago, after Meilin's death, and Wufei didn't really go many places these days unless he was high enough on coke to look at the world with glazed eyes and not feel anything, and Heero, though he rarely felt guilty about any of the decisions he made in the fucked up life he had been dealt, drew the line at shooting coke or heroin into Wufei's arm just so he would go out to a shitty dive bar with him.

Besides, if Wufei were here with him, Heero wouldn't be able to stare at the lounge singer so openly, wouldn't be able to fantasize about him or signal for his attention or fuck him in the back hall between sets.

The act - the long haired singer and the short, haired, silent piano player - had been at Howard's for two years now. Heero knew the job probably didn't pay well, knew the singer had other gigs on the side and did something with the drag shows every once in a while, but that was really all Heero knew about the singer aside from his name, Duo Maxwell.

He'd been fucking Duo for a year now, every other Thursday, and sometimes other nights, if Heero could find the time or the motivation.

The sex was rough and hurried, always, even if it wasn't between sets when Duo let Heero suck him off or fuck him roughly, never with enough lube, against the door to his dressing room while Duo clutched the frame and panted and groaned and shuddered from Heero's rough hands, his deep thrusts. Even when Heero waited, or when they had a second round backstage, fully inside Duo's dressing room, it was still quick and still lacked tenderness. Just flesh on flesh, just Duo's moans and Heero's grunts and Duo braced against his dressing station, his dark blue gaze fixed on Heero's reflection in the mirror and even when Heero let their eyes meet, even when Heero stared back into Duo's bottomless gaze, it was rough. It was visceral. It was as if Duo knew him, knew all the darkness and the failure and could see down into the dried up well of Heero's soul and he watched him suffer through it all, watched him fuck Duo until his cock, his body was just as dry.

Heero knew Duo enjoyed it - it wasn't as if Heero forced himself on Duo and after all, Duo had been the one to invite him backstage that first time, that first night last year after he sang Endless Love, his gaze locked on Heero the entire time - but Heero didn't know if Duo cared about him.

He doubted it. What was there to care about? It was rough, mind numbing sex a few times a month, it was ripped clothes that needed to be replaced, and yeah, Heero always left him money - always shoved a few hundred dollars in Duo's hands or pockets even while Duo sneered and said he wasn't a whore and this wasn't about his stupid money.

Duo saw him come in halfway through the second set, and Heero was sure he didn't imagine the smirk and the wink Duo sent his way as Heero sat at his normal table and sipped on his normal vodka tonic made strong enough that Heero always wondered if they even bothered with the tonic.

Heero was also sure he didn't imagine the glare the piano player sent his way, the narrowed green eyes barely visible through the fall of auburn hair, or the stiff set of his shoulders when Duo told him to play Endless Love next.

It was a shitty song - a stupid song that Heero knew his parents had listened to, knew that had danced to it at their wedding and he hated the song for that very reason. And when Duo sang it in his throaty voice that sounded like sex, that sounded like hours of kissing and sucking cocks and made Heero hard, just listening to it, he hated the song even more. It felt like a razor scraping over his skin, like raw pain and jumbled emotions and he hated it.

Duo knew he hated the song - Heero had said that to him that first night, when Duo pulled him into the dressing room with one hand tangled in Heero's hair and the other already palming his cock through the fabric of his trousers - but he sang it anyway. Every time Heero came.

Heero drank three of the vodka tonics and listened to Duo sing and watched him.

There was something about him - something about the way he managed to make the lavender satin suit look sexy instead of stupid, about the way he tweaked his bowtie just before launching into some standard from the 1960s that had the older, drunker patrons cheering and singing along.

And there was something about the piano player too.

Heero had never given him much thought before - he didn't know his name and he always assumed he worked at Howard's End, that he was just the house piano player, but he realized now, looking at the matching lavender satin suit that he wore, that the pianist and the singer were a package deal.

And the look he had given Heero - that angry, confrontational and slightly possessive look.

That was new.

As far as Heero had noticed, the pianist had about as much interest in Heero as Heero had in him and had never even raised an eyebrow when he walked past Heero wiping Duo's cum from the corner of his mouth or Duo hastily shoving his shirt back into his lavender pants and zipping up before going back onstage to finish his act.

Heero waited for Duo and the pianist to leave the stage at the end of the night and then he settled his bill and tipped too much - laying out an extra hundred dollar bill that was one of the many missing from Gio's duffel - and he made his way backstage.

Duo's dressing room door was open, and he could hear Duo's raised voice.

"... knew it was going to be like this. You fucking know me, Tro. I told you before - I'm not giving him up. You've seen the way he is - how fucking lost he is. I -"

"He's not some wild animal you can rescue and take care of, Duo," another voice cut in, soft and brittle and angry.

Duo snorted.

"You're the one who cares so much about wild animals, Tro, not me. He needs me."

"Has he said that? Has he ever said _anything_ to you aside from bend over?"

"Fuck you, Tro."

"You do. Every night. Hell, most mornings too. You fuck me all of the time, Duo. You fuck me and you bury your cock so deep inside me it feels like we're one person, Duo. You fuck me every day but the minute you see him all you can think is that he _needs_ you? I need you, Duo."

Heero heard movement, heard the rough scrape of fabric and hands and flesh and he knew what was going on behind the half-closed door, knew that 'Tro' - it had to be the pianist - was tugging at Duo's clothes and Duo was tugging at his, knew they were stripping each other down and kissing and biting at each other while they did it. He could hear the sharp pain in Duo's voice, the gasp of surprise and the frustrated groans they both made as they struggled with buttons and zippers.

Heero leaned against the door frame and he listened, listened to the heavy, ragged breathing, the wet sound of a lubricated cock sliding home, the sounds of Duo having sex and the foreign sounds of Tro - the mewls, the low, throaty cry of his release and Duo's triumphant grunt.

"I need you too," Duo said, his voice a muffled whisper, and Heero could imagine he was pressed against Tro, his face against his back or his chest and his cock was probably still buried deep inside Tro, his cum slowly leaking out.

"Then why does he -"

"I'm not changing for you, Trowa. I'm not changing for anymore. He matters. You matter. And fucking him every other Thursday and seeing that look in his eyes go away matters to me, Trowa. He's like a fucking corpse before he kisses me - his whole fucking face is dead, Tro -I've never seen anyone so fucked up in my life before and if a few minutes of fucking me in this dressing room makes that go away then fine. I'm happy to oblige."

There was silence, heavy and tense and then more sounds, more clothing being adjusted and a moment later the door opened fully, washing Heero in a spill of florescent light and Tro - Trowa - glared at him.

Heero held his gaze, measured the weight of his anger and hatred and he knew it was deep, knew Tro -Trowa hated Heero almost as much as Heero hated himself.

And then Tro-Trowa walked away, slingling his lavender suit jacket over one shoulder and slamming out of the hall through the emergency exit, a swirl of cool night air hitting Heero in his wake.

Duo was barely half dressed, his bowtie and jacket abandoned and his dress shirt open, exposing his smooth, bare chest and Heero followed it down to Duo's groin, to the lavender dress pants shoved halfway down his thighs and his thick, flaccid cock.

Heero stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

Duo arched an eyebrow.

He wasn't an idiot, he had to know that Heero had heard at least some, if not all, of what had just happened.

"I don't need you," Heero said.

Duo leaned back against his dressing room table and crossed his arms. He smirked at Heero.

"Oh, you don't?" He responded. "Then why the hell are you here?"

Heero stared at him, at those bottomless eyes and those curled lips and the trail of freckles on the bridge of his nose and he swallowed hard and looked away.

"It's fine," Duo, his voice closer, and Heero saw that he had stepped away from the dressing table and was just in front of him, close enough to touch. "I don't care."

Heero pulled him close, hands digging sharply into Duo's narrow hips, and he kissed him, pressing his lips against those freckles.

Duo's eyes were wide in shock.

Heero had never done that, had never kissed his face - only his lips and his cock and his ass.

"Quatre had freckles. Just like those."

Duo had no idea what he was talking about, and Heero would never be able to explain.

But Duo nodded and his hands gripped Heero just as tightly, held him just as close, and Heero could feel the strong thud of his heart against his ribcage, pounding and pounding out a rhythm that, damn it all to hell, sounded like Endless Love.


End file.
